That’s My Kid
You know that moment when you try to pretend like that kid (yeah, the one making deafeningly loud dying whale noises at the pool) isn’t actually yours? Yeah, we’ve all had that moment.
Your toddler throws a tantrum in the middle of a shopping trip, and you wish you could just leave that kid in the cart (with the five boxes of cereal, the “I’m not planning to share this” pineapple, and the oversized bag of all-purpose, unbleached flour) as you exit the store to sanity.
Child number two decides to call child number four a “booger-nosed baloney brain” right as Super Mom (with her fluttering herd of angel children) walks past. Child number four probably asked for it.
Your preteen makes a very public and quite unfortunate attempt at sarcasm that makes you look like an utterly delinquent parent (even if it was kind of funny).
You know, those moments. Moments where you look at your kids and temporarily forget that you pushed them out of your own body, instead attempting to blame your husband—whose genes are definitely in evidence in their big brown eyes and gorgeously tan skin—conveniently setting aside the fact that you not-so-helpfully contributed to their sin nature too.
You know who doesn’t have that moment? God.
In fact we have two very clear occasions of God saying about Jesus, “This is my beloved son, with whom I am well pleased! Listen to him!”
Can you imagine? Can you imagine having a kid that you could look at and say that about? This is my kid. He makes my heart happy. Aren’t the things coming out of her mouth just wonderful?
And the truth is: those moments are there. If we’re looking for them.
This week I challenged myself to look for them.
So when Littles pushed himself to swim laps at the pool, teaching himself to dive and striving to mimic the Olympic swimmers he’s been watching, I felt my eyes glow and gave him a huge thumbs up when he looked for my approval. That’s my kid, I thought to myself, watching him. I love who he is.
When Tiny showed me his latest art project, I gave it my full attention and told him how much I enjoyed seeing his creativity and getting to watch him improve his skills through practice. That’s my kid, I reminded myself, as I admired his latest cyborg pirate. I love how God made him.
When Bee made cookies to take to a sick friend (and totally trashed my kitchen), I cheerfully taste-tested for her (to make sure she didn’t make her friend any sicker) and complimented her servant heart and baking genius. That’s my kid, I said internally, as I sent her back to the kitchen to wash her dishes. I love how she makes me want to be better.
When Bruiser welcomed a new boy to the neighborhood, even though he’s only been in this neighborhood a few weeks himself, I took the time to listen to his very long story about it (somehow still peppered with twenty gazillion different questions). That’s my kid, I grinned, trying not to laugh. He drives me nuts, but I love his heart.
When Twinkle raced her big siblings around the neighborhood, making them run hard to beat her home as she zooms past them on her scooter, flashing her dimple as she goes, I cheer her on and stretch my legs to keep up. That’s my kid, I couldn’t help but shake my head. I love that she gets to be in our family.
And as I think about how I can look at my own kids differently, I can’t help but think about how God looks at me. Does He see me with the same proud-dad eyes that once looked at Jesus?
Often, I doubt this. I see my many mistakes, the countless times I screw up, the number of occasions I’m just too lazy and comfortable to be bothered to do the right thing. I see myself and think maybe God would like to walk away and pretend I’m not actually His.
But no. This isn’t how He sees me. This isn’t how He looks at any of us. Because when He looks at me, no matter what I’ve done, because of what He’s already done for us, He looks at me (He looks at you!) and He sees His son. He sees Jesus.
So every day, whether I’m totally rocking it or I’m a walking, talking screw up, when God looks at me, He sees Jesus, and so He’s able to say: That’s my kid, my Marian, covered in my Son Jesus’ blood. With her I am well pleased.
Because if I can say it about my own odd-ball kids, I guarantee that my perfect Father is saying it about me.
And He’s saying it about you too.
Those are my kids. When I look at them, I see my Son, broken and bleeding on the cross for their sake. With them I am well pleased.
Maybe today you need to choose to look at your own kids differently, waiting for your own “That’s my kid moment.” Or maybe you just need to remember that God is already having His own moment when He’s looking at your beautiful face, the one that reflects His creativity or His love for the underdog or His joy in the beautiful or His passion for justice.
Or maybe, like me, it’s a little bit of both. So for today: what would it feel like to look at your kids and say with pride, “That’s my kid! How glad am I to get to parent that human!” And what would it look like to know that God is already looking at you with those same thoughts behind His proud-dad eyes?
